“——, that’s all right, Kipp. Fergit it. If I he’ped yuh ary way, I’m right glad tuh uh done it. Yuh know, there ain’t none uh us humans that ain’t got a or’nary streak hid out somewhere in our innards. And some time er another, that there or’nary streak jest nacherally busts all holts and comes a-rearin’. Sometimes, we kin grab a tail-holt and jerk ’er back in time. More often it’s some other gent that heads off that or’nary streak and herds it back into our system tuh stay put fer the rest uh our life. I mind the night mine broke out.”
Tad grinned into the sheriff’s eyes, lighted a cigaret, and went on, the words coming lazily in his soft, Southern drawl:
“My mammy died when I was little more’n a yearlin’, leavin’ me tuh grow up kinda keerless like, my daddy not payin’ me much attention when I shows I kin kinda do my own rustlin’. He’s a cowpuncher fer the Turkey Track at the time and I’m wranglin’ hosses fer the spread. When they ships, I goes tuh town with the boys and while they’re a-blowin’ their coin fer licker and gamblin’ and such, I’m squanderin’ my ten a month fer sody pop and sweet truck. I’ve likewise bought myse’f a sore-backed, ring-boned Mexican mule which I gits from a drunken Pisano fer six-bits and a pint uh rot-gut licker.
“My daddy, bein’ a good drinkin’ man and jest about slick enough at stud poker tuh hang and rattle all night afore he loses his taw to the tin-horns, ain’t much better off, financial, as me.
“Then one fall night, in a Mex town along the Rio, my daddy gits downed in a gun scrap. I’m sleepin’ on a poker table at the time, waitin’ till paw goes broke so’s I kin load him on his hoss and go tuh camp. By the time the smoke’s cleared away and I gits full waked up, dad’s a-passin’ out fast and callin’ fer me. I sets there on the ’dobe floor and wipes the blood off his mouth while he crosses the Big Divide, a grin on his face while his eyes goes glassy.
“‘Kid,’ says he, afore the blood chokes him, ‘it was Pedro Sanchez, the bronc peeler, that done it. Here’s my gun. When the time comes, git that greaser.’
“I’m some twelve years old then. That night I pads that mule uh mine with gunny sacks, throw’s my dad’s saddle on him and proceeds tuh foller this Sanchez gent who has left town pronto after the killin’. My ol’ rusty Chihuahua spur is tied to my bare foot and the long-barreled .45 gouges my ribs and starts wearin’ the hide off my hip bone. Thus burdened, as the sayin’ goes, I hits the trail uh the gent that’s downed my daddy.”
Tad smiled reminiscently.
“Yuh found him?” asked Kipp, his own troubles momentarily forgotten.
“Ten years later, I finds him. He dealin’ faro bank in Juarez and alongside him on the table lays a white-handled six-gun with five notches filed on the handle, plain and insultin’ like. Sanchez, havin’ got off to a good start, has done turned out tuh be a killer, sabe?